The Cellphone Novelist
by vixoss
Summary: He was still grinning, even after they had retracted their hands, and then he leaned forward so that he could whisper into her ear, his breath hot and tickling, "But you would probably know me better as 'Voldemort'." Based on the manga "Watashi ni Shinasai."


**Pairing:** Tomione

 **Genre:** T

 **Summary:** He was still grinning, even after they had retracted their hands, and then he leaned forward so that he could whisper into her ear, his breath hot and tickling, "But you would probably know me better as ' _Voldemort'_."

 **Notes:** Based on the manga "Watashi ni Shinasai". I still cannot understand until today how Yukina could give up her writing career for Shigeru, someone who was just jealous of her and someone who totally wasn't worth it.

* * *

 **The Cellphone Novelist**

 **The 'Brightest Witch' had quit being a writer two years ago and it's certainly a great loss. We all mourn the early retirement of Britain's most successful cellphone novelist. In an anonymous interview, she revealed that she had quit on behalf of her husband, who is extremely against her successful writing career.**

" _Such a stupid reason to quit! If I was her, I would've never quit!"_

" _Her husband is just a jealous, misogynic prick!"_

" _I really wished she would come back."_

Hermione Granger, aka. known by the population Britain's under the pseudonym 'Brightest Witch' was swamped almost daily with the disappointment of her readers about her sudden retirement. There had been several articles that covered that subject, even the Daily Prophet, Britain's most important magazine did. Twenty-two, armed with a University degree of English and Literature, at the peak of her career, Hermione was disappointed, too. Deeply disappointed, but what should she have done? Her husband, her first true love, was against her career and wanted her to quit. Unable to watch him suffering from the feeling of inferiority and bitterness anymore, Hermione quit.

It had ended his suffering and he had been endlessly grateful but this was where her suffering had began.

Not writing.

Or writing in secret and never getting the result published.

Option one had lasted for approximately one month before she opted for option two. The burning itch to write had never been sated, no matter what she did. Shopping, having coffee with her friends, or working an accounting job. The world of numbers was nothing for her even though she had navigated through it with competency.

Only one month later she had quit that job. Her world was drab and dull but she had chosen it, chosen her first love over her dream, over an occupation she excelled at.

And, she felt truly miserable about it.

* * *

It was a rainy day as Hermione holed up in "Potions and Elixirs", a cafe shop, having ordered a thick piece of chocolate-vanilla cake with a tall glass of latte macchiato. She was sitting on a stool, facing the windowed wall as she watched the rain pouring outside.

She was currently breaking her promise to Ron and writing another story on a piece of napkin which she was going to throw away later. It was a sci-fi story about a young woman facing severe neuroses while fighting to become a pilot who would be able the world from outer space threats, the piece would focus heavily on the psyche of the female protagonist and contain plenty of gore.

Many readers have commented that her stories were surprisingly violent but the violence within her stories was just another reason for the popularity of her cellphone novels.

Before the rain had stopped, Hermione had already written two complete chapters of her next story that would be probably never be published on two napkins. Her cellphone pinged - another email from her readers, another review for her online stories on Cellpad (where everything had began) or probably another recension on Hogmazon? There was not one day that went by where she would not receive a message, be it in form of a mail or review, which told her how much her stories were loved. Nowadays, even her old, unpopular stories on Cellpad were overflowing with reviews, now that she had quit. And, on lucky days, she would still receive long, literary analyses of her stories from a particularly intellectual reader.

Her inboxes were still flooded with unread mails and notifications. She could sometimes not bring herself to read them, because it just hurt so much.

Hermione sighed.

There was nothing she could change now. She had already made her decision. It would not be fair towards Ron.

With a heavy heart, Hermione grabbed her pen to shuffle it back into her coat-pocket, but she was too clumsy and ended up knocking the pen over the table instead.

 _Crap_.

"Excuse me," a smooth baritone voice interrupted her as a shoulder bumped into hers as she bent down to pick up her writing utensil. "Is this seat taken?" He must've been referring to the seat next to hers, Hermione assumed, as she just managed to get her pen and raise up from the carpeted floor.

A young man with chocolate-brown hair and dark eyes, sensuous lips, dressed in a salmon-colored cashmere sweater and black pants, stared at her when she made eye-contact with him. His coat had been already slung over the back of the stool next to hers that remained unoccupied. He was handsome and tall, but he wasn't smiling at her lack of response.

"Oh, of course. Please sit down. I was about to leave anyway," Hermione said hastily, embarrassed, ducking her head and grabbing her half eaten cake and empty glass of coffee to take it to the counter. However, she forgot something essential on the counter.

The young man noticed and frowned. "Miss! Hey, miss!"

He called after her but Hermione was already gone.

Tom Riddle caught the sight of the two napkins on which the young woman had written on and his frown deepened. Usually, he was not one to be nosy, but there was something about the particular pieces of writing that spellbound him.

So, he read.

Then, he thought. _Impossible._

* * *

At home, Hermione was curled up with Crookshanks, her feline companion on the couch, reading a cellphone novel of another author as it had begun to rain, yet again. The London weather was so awful. The pitter-patter of the rain only served to make her feel even more depressed as she indulged in her online novel.

Cellphone novels were basically novels but designed in a mobile format, so they were usually shorter than paper-book or kindle novels, but also easier to read at the same, perfect for those who lacked time.

The novel she was currently reading was good, but not thrilling, which was kind of painful, because it triggered the urge in Hermione to write a better one. And, she knew she could do it. Nothing made her happier than writing, not even reading.

It seemed as if she had already consumed all cellphone novel masterpieces, most of them having been belonging by C.M, her favorite writer, who wrote heartbreaking, beautiful stories about two Russians struggling with their past while aiming for the top in the harsh world of professional competition. Other pieces had been written by other authors, who, however, seemed to only have written one masterpiece in their life and then no more. It wasn't a rarity, actually. If a writer was blessed with fortune, then he could write countless wondrous pieces of literature, but only then.

The rattle of keys and the door unlocking announced Ron's homecoming. Hermione sighed and turned on the blackscreen on her phone as she pushed Crookshanks off her lap, so that she could greet her husband.

She had gotten yet another review.

* * *

Her love and marriage with Ron must've grown stale, definitely had _grown_ stale after he had pressured her into giving up her career as a cellphone novelist. Hermione mused as she was, yet, in the same café as yesterday again. When he had come home and kissed her on the cheek, smelling of cheap cologne and work, his stubble tickling her skin, she felt nothing – except for a sparkle of disgust.

She watched the rain from the same place as yesterday again, but the downpour wasn't as heavy as yesterday. She was waiting for order, which was the same as yesterday – a slice of chocolate-vanilla cake and a glass of latte macchiato. This time, however, she hadn't brought a pen with her to write. She preferred to watch the rain instead, it could be a lullaby to her soul at times.

"You're quite the habitual creature, aren't you?" a dark, velvety voice said as a chocolate-vanilla cake and latte macchiato was slid over to her on the long table, which caused Hermione to mistake the owner of the voice for the barista. She turned her head to him to thank him when –

She saw that it was no one else than the young man, who was a gift for the eyes, from yesterday.

He was smirking at her flabbergast expression. "But it's a good thing. Otherwise, I wouldn't have been able to find you again."

"Ex-excuse me?" _A stalker? But no stalker is this handsome!_

"Allow me to introduce myself: I'm Tom. Tom Riddle."

He introduced himself with a handshake and Hermione was too benumbed to not shake his large, strong hand.

He was still grinning, even after they had retracted their hands, and then he leaned forward so that he could whisper into her ear, his breath hot and tickling, "But you would probably know me better as ' _Voldemort'_."

Hermione gasped. "How-how – that's impossible!"

Voldemort was an international bestseller author, who had taken the world by storm with his thrillers. He was the author of the macabre trilogy, The Silence of Harry Potter. Yes, he was famous and infamous for writing gruesome stories with villainous protagonists but his works always gave an in-depth insight into the psychology of disturbed people. A part of Hermione believed that if he hadn't become a writer, he would've committed those heinous crimes in reality, though, in order to act them out. However, she couldn't blame him – the feeling of living in a world you create and seeing it through the eyes of your own character's was an experience beyond words.

"You don't believe me?" He said, and retrieved his Mac from his bag to show her the first chapter of an unpublished manuscript on a simple Word document. That style, that plot, that brilliance – it could've been only him! Lord Voldemort!

"I-I can't believe it!" Hermione exclaimed.

"I can't either, Mrs. Brightest Witch."

"How-how-"

He smirked and held up her enscribbled napkins from yesterday.

"No way!"

"You ought to be more careful with your belongings," Tom advised her. "What would've happened if someone else had picked up those napkins?" He shrugged his shoulders. "But then again, probably nothing, though. Two chapters are enough for plagerism. And, then again, not everyone would've recognized it was you. There're some idiots out there."

Hermione could still not believe that she was having a "normal" conversation with Voldemort, whose real name turned out to be Tom Riddle.

Then, he rested his chin and curled hand, and smiled at her. "Hurry up, and finish your food and drink. I want to have a conversation with you in private."

She swallowed, understanding his suggestion. "You mean –"

"Exactly, we're going to my place."

Hermione was reluctant.

"I-I don't think that's a good idea," she had said.

"You are refusing a one-time offer from Voldemort?"

"I…"

The gears in her head turned.

"Prove it. Prove it that you're really Lord Voldemort."

He chuckled, his voice like dark chocolate. "I already did, didn't I?"

"You could be just working for a publishing agency and stolen his manuscript. Write me a paragraph of another story."

"Okay, okay. As you wish, My Lady."

Tom grabbed a clean piece of napkin, removed a sleek, silver pen from his breast-pocket and began to write.

After ten minutes, the paragraph was finished, and Hermione read it over. It was undoubtedly him.

* * *

In the end, Hermione went with him. She knew that it was stupid, but this was Voldemort, Lord Voldemort, the international bestseller author, who was everything a writer aspired to be. She could not refuse him.

Tom's home was tasteful and stylish just like him. The furniture was top-modern with glass-tables, a flat-screen television and dark leather couches, the sleek, soft carpet the color of cream.

"A glass of wine?" He asked her as he poured himself a glass of the red liquid while she sat on the couch.

"No, thank you."

"Suit yourself," he told her with a shrug and took a sip himself.

"So, tell me was it worth to quit writing for your husband? Was someone who couldn't support your career worth it?"

"Why-why are you asking such questions? Why would you care?" Hermione stammered.

"Because I'm a great fan of your works. Don't look at me like that, Brightest Witch. I love your works. I love to read about the suffering you put your female protagonists who happen to be young women through. It's gives me such great inspiration for my own stories."

He told her with a straight face and smirk, and Hermione shuddered. She had read his works; they were gruesome, macabre and violent, mostly featuring a male protagonist who who committed horrible crimes. But occasionally, occasionally there was a young woman thrown in there, who happened to stumble across the villainous protagonist and fall victim to his crimes as well. However, those young women were usually complex and created to make the readers sympathize with her.

"I love your female protagonists. They're so complex, so vulnerable yet strong. They're such troubled creatures and yet they cannot help but to fight."

Suddenly, Voldemort was right in front of her, having caged her on the sofa with his arms braced on either sides of her eat, his dark eyes intense with fascination. Hermione felt more than a little uncomfortable, suddenly wishing she had taken on his offer of a glass wine.

This was so highly inappropriate.

He was looking at her in a way a man looked at a woman.

However, Hermione steeled herself and replied, "It's none of your business! I don't care if my works give you inspiration for yours! I'm very happy with Ron!"

Hermione lied. It gave her the greatest joy to know that Voldemort, the writer who had taken the world by storm, took inspiration from her works. It made her so, so happy – even happier when Ron had purposed to her in the restaurant of the most expensive hotel in London.

As if he had seen right through her lie, Tom smiled. He withdrew from her, and Hermione secretly mourned the loss of his proximity. "I wonder about that."

He eyed her mockingly from the corners of his eyes. "I actually think that you're wasting your life away as a house-wife with nothing to do, with no other kind of passion that keeps you soul intact. You're probably always writing snippets of stories and hide them from your husband while feeling guilty about it. You're stashing your talents – it's not good. You'll regret it!"

She already regretted it now.

"What do you know? You know nothing about me! You've no right to judge me!" Hermione exploded in a temper-tantrum, jerking off the couch into a standing position suddenly.

"Oh, but I'm not judging you as a person. I don't know you after all. I'm judging you as a fellow writer."

"Ugh, I don't have to talk to you!" Hermione exclaimed, pushed him back, making her way to the door, in order to disappear from his presence.

"You won't be able to run, Miss Brightest Witch."

* * *

The door was already slammed behind Tom.

With half-lidded, darkened eyes, he said, "It's pointless to even try."

Hermione hid for one week straight in Ron's apartment, not leaving for even a single minute. Tom's words were still burning in her mind, eating away at her soul – in a non-destructive way, she had to confess secretly.

 _You won't be able to run._

Somehow after her confrontation with Tom, her inbox had been flooded with an onslaught of recensions, reviews, fanmails and even mails from other publishers, who begged her to take on writing again. It was as if the people had become possessed, obsessed with her writing. It was just a bit frightening – all those demands, even though they were all actually just pushing her into the right direction.

* * *

The onslaught continued for one week straight until Hermione could not take it anymore and confronted Tom about it, believing that he was the one behind it.

"What the fuck have you been doing?" She demanded to know from him.

"Hello to you, too," he said wryly. "Champagne?"

"You have been pulling the strings in the background, haven't you?"

"I'm afraid you'll have to clarify," he told her dryly.

"You caused people to bombard me with all kind of recensions and mails, demanding that I return to writing world!"

"I'm glad you think of me as so capable. But I'm afraid, I'm not such a busy-body nor do I've such a huge amount of time. I've a book to finish, you know?"

"But…."

"Shouldn't you be glad? The enormous amount of response is just a testament to your skills as a writer. You should be rather proud of it, then lament on it."

Hermione bit her lip.

"Didn't I tell you already? You can't run."

Finally, she understood the full weight of his words: _she couldn't run away from her success._

At home, Hermione wondered what she was doing as she pulled out her cellphone and rewrote the story she had began writing at the coffee shop. _The jalousies rattled. The delta was invading the city, destroying it._

She had already written to chapter five when Ron came home, but she was too engulfed in her story to notice.

"What the hell are you doing, Hermione?" He barked at her, standing right in front of her.

She looked up at him, coldly, deadly, and raised her voice to a shrill volume, _"Something I should've done the past two years!"_

And, then she left him, checking in a hotel for the night and taking Crookshanks with her.

* * *

In the sanctuary of the hotel-room, Hermione finished writing her entire story in one sitting.

* * *

Ron had shitstormed her inboxes and called more times than her publisher before a deadline, but she had just ignored him coldly. There was no way that she would waste any more time on him anymore; they probably had been incompatible from the very beginning, but she just had been too blind to see it.

She had been too blind to see that he had done something she condoned as the most evil thing in the world: he had taken something truly valuable away from her.

Hermione remembered her teenage years. Bushy-haired, glasses, a geek – no one – no boy had ever wanted her. She was the epitome of the unwanted in middle-school and her undesirability had extended into high-school as well. And, this was what her insecurities must've originated from.

When she enrolled into University, she met Ron in one of the sub-classes and romance bloomed between them. At University, she already no longer needed her glasses, because she was already no longer far-sighted. However, her bushy-hair and average features remained, and since she refused to wear make-up she never became one of those pretty girls.

However, that didn't matter – Ron didn't care about that anyway.

In the end, she married her first love.

During middle-school she had started writing and publishing her stories on Cellpad and continued until she finished University; the response she had gotten for her stories, for the figments of her imagination had been enormous. After she had gotten her degree, she had written her first professional Cellphone novel under her pseudonym and had promptly gotten published after she had send it to a few publishers. The Brightest Witch became a sensation in Britain.

She published one online novel after another. Ron had known from the beginning who she was, that she was the author of those successful cellphone novels, but already when her first book had been a great hit, he didn't seem happy for her – on contrary, he seemed bitter.

Eventually his bitterness spiraled into a toxic kind of jealousy as he demanded from her to quit her writing career, and as infatuated she had been with him, she had agreed. Everyone had been against her decision, her parents, her friends, her publishers, of course, but most of all – her fans. She had felt like betraying them, they had given them so much, but she had valued Ron above them.

What had Ron ever giving her?

Money, sure. After she had quit her career, he had been the sole breadwinner for both of them, but with the money she had made she would've been able to live comfortably for at long enough. When she had been still writing, she earned six-times as much as he did.

She didn't need his money. She had never needed his money.

What Ron had really given her was attention, but not love.

And, now that the spell was broken, she could return to the world she belonged. She would stop letting success chase her.

She promptly called her publisher, "Miss MCgonagall, yes it's me, Hermione. I've an announcement to make…."

* * *

On a Wednesday's afternoon, Hermione gave an interview behind a screen to keep her identity hidden.

"We're so happy that you decided to return to your writing career," the female interviewer exclaimed.

"Yes, I'm definitely happy, too."

"What caused you to change your mind about your sudden retirement?"

"I would call it a fateful encounter."

"Talking about fateful encounters. It's a central theme of many of your stories, where your female protagonists have a fateful encounter with someone or something which helps them to win against the obstacles, against their enemies. It's almost magic, miraculous. Was your fateful encounter this way?"

Hermione laughed. "My fateful encounter was definitely magic, but it wasn't spectacular if that's what you'e expecting. If anything then it was unexpected, but I'm very grateful for it."

"Will you give us some juicy details about your fateful encounter?"

"I'm…afraid I can't. _He_ wouldn't appreciate, I think."

Hermione was a different person when it came to talking to women – it was as if her real self was swapped with a different persona – someone, who was charismatic, bubbly and mature.

In contrast to her geeky, unlikeable and sometimes too brash nature when talking to _men_. Around Ron she was wilting, and while in the presence of Tom she might've been awkward, but she was burning with passion and ambition, probably because he was pushing her, pushing into the right direction.

"So, now onto the next question: did you regret having quit writing?"

Hermione paused, her eyes glazing over with misery before she answered, "Yes, it's the greatest regret I've in my life."

* * *

 _There were still so many stories waiting for her to be written and she would write them all._

She would write them all.

It was just as Tom had said: she couldn't run away from her success.

Hermione was sitting in Potions and Elixirs again, editing her finished story on her laptop, submerged in the process when suddenly a familiarly smooth voice asked, " _A slice of chocolate-vanilla cake and a glass of latte macchiato?"_

She looked up, her shock mirroring the complete surprise she had felt when he had first revealed his true identity to her.

"Vol-Voldemort."

He pressed a tan finger to his lips. "Call me Tom."

Tom and Hermione, no Voldemort and the Brightest Witch – they were two beings living in the same world. Two beings who couldn't run away from success.


End file.
